Defy The Grave
by The Cold East Wind
Summary: After the fall, John is not good. Once Sherlock comes back he's worse. This fic is brutal. Our boys go through hell in this one, and by the end of the first chapter your going to hate me. No worries it ends as it should. I would never leave our boys apart. Be warned, there is drug use, suicide attempts, suicidal thoughts, alcohol abuse, drugs addiction, and violence. Graphic sex.


"Sherlock, we had to keep an officer on your grave!" Lestrade was more then a little upset with the newly alive detective.

"Why would you do that, it's not as if I where going to get up and walk away."

Sherlock made some sort of hand gesture with a bit of a laugh thinking himself clever.

"No you ass, but John sleeps there two to three times a week. Sometimes drunk, sometimes with his Browning, sometimes drunk and with his Browning. And this didn't let up. Now do you see? You broke that man. Christ Sherlock, what where you thinking? He hasn't been there in two nights, so I'm sure tonight that's where he'll be. And so will one of my officers, because it's an official post now. Trying to keep John Watson alive is now the job of Scottland Yard."

Sherlock stood stock still. He hadn't known. He simply hadn't known. What little color was in his face drained away, he felt like he would vomit. The people he had watching John hadn't told him, they (Mycroft and Molly ) had told him that John was doing as well as could be expected. This is what they had expected?Sherlock had felt at the time that this was accurate and hadn't pushed feather. And although he had been concerned for John, Sherlock had to look at the bigger picture. John could endure a small amount of grief if it led to his ultimate safety, even if he didn't yet know it himself. John was a strong man, a soldier. Hurt yes, but broken? Not John. Not his John. He couldn't care that much, could he?

"I don't believe you." Sherlock said defiantly with tears in his eyes at the mental picture of his broken Doctor.

"You don't want to believe me. But you know it's true." Lestrade didn't want to hurt Sherlock, but he needed to know what he was walking into with John.

"You sure he'll be there tonight?" Sherlock asked without looking up at Greg.

"He never gose more then two. He'll be there." Lestrade assured him.

"Then so will I." Sherlock's Bellstaff billowed in his wake.

Sherlock approached his grave, a strange feeling to be sure even for him, pulling his collor up against the chill, both real and imagined it was one of those nights when you can feel that the cold had decided its time to take root. In the distance Sherlock could make out the form of what he knew to be John Watson, sitting on the cold ground, bottle in one hand, L9A1 in the other, head resting on Sherlock's glossy black headstone. John didn't hear Sherlocks approach, the wind was just high enough to cover his steps, so he was able to come within a couple of paces of Johns out stretched feet, he crouched down.

"Jawn." Sherlock said his name so softly he thought maybe the wind had carried it away.

John's eyes fluttered open, so dark and lifeless, not the bright ocean waters, Sherlock had fell in love with, these eyes where not Johns, this was not his Jawn.

"No, no not this. You're here now." Johns speech held just a hint of a slur, so slight no one else would have noticed. Sherlock noticed. This was not his Jawn. "I don't want to do this, this is a cruel game. Should have known this was coming though, now I'm a complete nutter."

The pain that radiated off of John was almost tangible

"No you're not Jawn, it's me. I'm real." Sherlock had to hold back his own tears and he wanted to reach out and touch John to hold him and make all the pain melt away, but didn't dare. John seemed frail to the touch, and Sherlock feared he may break.

"Too real, so beautiful, not fair. I loved you so much. Fuck. Do still." John drank deeply from the bottle he held tight. "You where always so perfect...so beautiful. This hurts too much Sherlock. God I can't even say your name...without it...it just all hurts so much. I can't do this anymore, I want to be with you. Please just let me be with you."

Sherlock was frozen in place by the absolute horror that he felt, watching this shadow of a man that he had unwittingly created. John raised the gun to his mouth, and Sherlock lunged forward at him as he realized what was about to happen, violently smacking the gun away, but not before John got a shot off that cracked the air around them (mercifully missing the headstone and Johns head by centimeters) and seemed to bring them in focus to one another. Johns eyes widened and filled with a horrified anguish and unshed tears. His voice shook when he spoke.

"Why? Why would you do this to me? Do you hate me? Why do you hate me? What did I ever do?"

"God, John, no, no I could never hate you...I...I had to do this. I never wanted to leave you. To lie to you. But..I...I had no choice. So it was this...or put your life in danger." Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat.

John watched the revanet speak, trying to make sense of all that was happening, but it was difficult to comprehend. All John had wanted from the second Sherlock had crashed into to the unyielding pavement was to have him back if only for one more breath. Many nights in the small hours of the morning John had cried to himself overwhelmed by ghost of things that never where. The tender ways they would have came to know each other, the sweet way they would have melted into each other under the cover of darkness. John would never dream of hurting Sherlock, not really, in fact he would move heaven and earth to shield him from all pain. But in this moment, with Johns whole world folding in on itself, he wanted to crush the object of his affection. Without a word, John stood and began his customary walk back to Baker St. with a silent Sherlock in tow. Sherlock hardly dare breathe, he walked lightly a half step behind John, utterly terrified of whatever was to come.

"Sit."

It wasn't a request, it was an order. John was cold. Angry. Hurt. Sherlock did as he was told and awaited farther instructions. In the two years Sherlock, had been gone he'd had his life threatened numerous times, fear of death, fear of capture, fear of discovery had been his constant companion. But none of that came close to the chilling threat that was John Watson. Now this was not to say that Sherlock was afraid of John. Because he wasn't, and not because he doubted Johns ability to kill him with his bare hands because he did not. It was just that he had no fear that John would hurt him and if he did then so be it. It was John, after all and whatever he did was perfectly acceptable. Therefor Sherlock was afraid of his fate, but accepting none the less.

John circled his own chair, clenching and unclenching his fist, chewing his bottom lip. John wasn't sure what corse of action to take. On the one hand he could...no he wanted to...no not that either. Just Sherlock. So fucking frustrating. Here. Alive and safe after all this time. John felt like he had been played for a fool. Sudden anger swelled to the surface and he rushed to grab Sherlock up out of his chair by his coat coller fully intending to shake the man, or pummel him, or choke him to death. But none of those things happened. Once he had Sherlock in his grasp, it was a dream come true and a screaming nightmare all at once. So near John could smell his familiar sent, feel the warmth of his lean frame radiate close to his own, see the frantic pulse in his throat, he wanted to cry, with joy and yell in anger. John was beaten. Sherlocks eyes where wide and panicked, just as he was jerked down into a harsh kiss.

"John..." Sherlock tried to speak, but John cut him off.

"Shut up." The steel, the anger, the force, where unmistakable. John rippped Sherlock out of his Belstaff, and pushed him back into his chair. John heeled out of his shoes and threw off his own jacket, placing a knee in between Sherlock thighs, leaning into a ferocious kiss. Sherlock tried to reach for Johns waist only to have his hands smacked away. John stood, and Sherlock held his breath as he watched John strip, down to his pants.

"Well?" John let the question hang in the air. Sherlock knew it was an invitation and wanted John, more then he wanted his next breath. This moment had been the only thing that kept him alive when he'd been chained to a wall stripped naked and beaten in the cold dark place. Or water boarded in the arid desert. Or drugged in the abandoned warehouse. This. John Hamish Watson. Sherlock, stood and began to take off his suit. John watched him with a look of intense hunger. A little thrill of electricity ran up Sherlock's spine when Johns fingers touched his skin, and he tugged him toward his room. Once there John turned on Sherlock his kisses where an assault. There where things in that kiss that should never live side by side, loss and regret, pain and betrayal, love and anger. He shoved Sherlock onto the bed and looked down at the beauty beneath him, and hated Sherlock. He hated himself, and he hated the world for what it had done to them. A halo of black curls seemed to swirl around Sherlock's snowy skin and his beautiful changeable eyes looked into John trustingly. John had never wanted anything quite so much and he knew that he would go to his grave loving this man. John thought that he would take Sherlock fast and hard. But as he watched his hands move over the pale skin, with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat he wanted what he'd always wanted, to love him, every inch, every porn, every breath. John licked his fingers and pushed inside Sherlock's body, the sound Sherlock made was more breath then words and he arched his hips up into Johns palm, he was hot and tight and stunning. John wanted to cry. He bathed Sherlocks lean muscular body in kisses he sucked his cock with greed and once he knew Sherlock to be open and eager for him, John pushed inside him, burying his huge cock in Sherlock much faster then he'd intended but primal need hurt,and anger, urged John on. All Sherlock could do was rise up to meet each beautifully agonizing beat of Johns cock inside him, the spiral of pleasure was blinding tears ran freely into his curls, a mingle of emotional pain and soaring joy, he couldn't hold him close enough, Sherlock wanted this feeling forever. John forever. The weight of his cock heavy in his body, the curve of Johns muscles under his hands as they flexed in rythme. He was beautiful, and he took Sherlock's breath away.

Somewhere in the back of Johns mind the thought registered that of course Sherlock Holmes felt like nothing he'd ever known. And his beauty only seemed to increase as he got closer and closer to his breaking point. His skin turned a deep blush covered in a sheen of pearl like sweat. His lips deeply red from being kissed and bitten, and the head of his cock bobbed purple and smacked against his flat belly. They came together. John in a torrented of emoting riding the spasms as out in near silence, as Sherlock filled the air around them with a course of John. Sherlock felt all his sense heighten, he could feel each hair of John's body tickle his skin, feel his hot ragged breath caress his neck and feel Johns cock pulse deep within, all the while John slowly stroked his knowing fingers over Sherlock's quivering cock savering his slick release between their bodies.

John held him so tight Sherlock could feel his ribs give under the pressure, and then there where whispers against his neck soft and low like a lover should but the words where wrong.

"Now get out!" John pushed away so swiftly that the absence of his warmth made Sherlock shiver.

"What?" The combination of Johns harsh words and the sudden cold made Sherlock suck in a sharp breath and recoiled as if he'd been slapped.

"You ripped my heart out. And that's what I hope this fuckin feels like. Now get the fuck out!" The words were venom.

Sherlock rushed into the sitting room and John stood by the landing and watched as Sherlock hastily gathered up his skattered clothing, not looking back at John once. He slipped on his trousers and shoes, whipped his shirt on, did one botton, slipped into his Belstaff, shoved his pants and his socks into his pocket, snatched up his scarf and flew down the steps, John stood in the door frame and watched the man he loved more then life itself walk out of his life again. After the door slammed he'd stayed there ears ringing in silence for long moments starting at the last spot Sherlock had been before his knees gave out beneath him and he collapsed to the floor, John broke, rocking with his arms around his middle making an anguished sound as he cried. Eventually John fell into something like exhaustion and just slumped there in that spot. When he woke, he went straight for what would be his first of many many bottles of scotch.

Sherlock made it three blocks before he turned down an ally and slammed himself against a wall, sliding down to sit on the dank chilled pavement, folding his knees to his chest, he wailed. The pain was crushing, and his shuttering breaths burned his chest. Sherlock stayed there for hours. Screaming and crying into his coat sleeves hiccuping slight incoherent sounds. When he finally crawled out of the ally in the small hours of the gray London morning it was to find the nearest drug den.

~Eight Months Later~

John stared down into his empty rock glass, and weighed his options. One he could simply get up and let the slobbering cock of a man have the bar stool that he clearly believed was his precious, or two he could teach him Newton's third law of motion.

'For ever action there is an equal and opposite reaction.'

He was after all a doctor, and by extension a teacher. John decided to teach. He spun around with rock glass in hand and smashed it into the side of the mans head. The slobbering cock staggered back holding his bloody face but not before John broke his nose with crushing accuracy and a smile. His two mates advanced on John. John planted his feet and stood his ground. Elbow to the face of one fellow and a solid jab in the solar plexus of the other. Someone grabbed John from behind and put him in a head lock, the two blokes not completely out of commission went to work on John, with a flurry of punches. John licked at his bloody split lip and just laughed. John had been trying to either drink himself or fuck himself to death, when taking the odd dangerous job here and there from Mycroft, had failed to do the trick. But this would do just as well he thought. Anything for a momentary distraction from the soul eating pain of his own fuck up's. Police arrived all too soon in Johns opinion and carted everyone off.

John sat on the floor of his cell and picked at the dried blood on his knuckles, not sure how much of it was his own, nor did he care. It didn't make a difference. Nothing did. And so he didn't care about the the blood stains on his t-shirt or his split lip where the blood had come from, or the black eye and his potentially bruised ribs. The pain told him he was still alive, despite his best efforts to the contrary. John made a defiant kind of eye contact with Lestrade as he came to open his cell.

"John. It's the third time this month." Greg spoke as a friend, not the Detective Inspector.

"It dosent matter." John said flatly with a small bitter smile.

"John, the bloke has a broken eye socket to go along with his broken nose." Lestrade, had tried to reach out to John, since Sherlock's return, but he'd been met with silence, and only had opportunity to speak to John when he got locked up for yet another pub brawl.

John just pulled on his jacket and walked out without looking back.

When John stepped outside, he was greeted by a black sedan. John wasn't surprised, but he also wasn't interested. And not because he was being obstinate, he just wasn't looking forward to the upcoming conversation. So he began his walk back to Baker St. and as much as it hurt him each time he walked those seventeen steps alone, he couldn't leave, it was his atonement for sins real and imagined. It hurt to live with the ghost in the flat, but John felt it was a pain he well deserved, and so he stayed, caught in the endless void of drink, pain, self hatred and regret. Mycroft had offered him a flat as a form of payment for his special opts skills. John had declined, the flat, but took the jobs. Nevertheless that didn't stop Mycroft from making the offer each time they crossed paths, as John was sure he would now when he heard Mycroft's footfalls approach.

"Dr. Watson." Mycroft, judged the flat to be in the same shabby condition it had been in since the day his little brother had jumped from St. Bart's. He judged John, to be in no better shape.

"Mycroft. I would ask, to what do I owe the pleasure, but then I'd be lying." John pulled off his jacket and grabbed a bottle of scotch and a rock glass. "Tea?" He held the bottle out to Mycroft, as he slumped down on the sofa.

"You are aware, that you can not drink him away?" Mycroft lend on this umbrella and cast John a critical look.

John, made a humorless sound that was once a laugh.

"You think that's what I'm trying to do? Drink him away? No. Never that. I'm trying to drink me away. Never him. Never. I fucked up. And so I look for redemption in every bottle." John was drinking and talking all in one. His emotions raw.

"Then talk to him." Simple. But Mycroft, knew it wasn't. Nether he nor John had seen or heard from Sherlock, since that faithful night nearly nine months ago. John hadn't tried looking for Sherlock, because he didn't know what he would do if he found him. He didn't know if he was still too angry and would hurt him again, or if love was simple more important. Mycroft on the other hand had looked, and come up with nothing. He knew that the homeless network that was only loyal to Sherlock was helping his brother so it was like chasing shadows.

"I don't know where his is." Johns voice broke the slightest bit. "Fuck you don't know where he is." John closed his eyes and made a sound that could only be called a sob. "Why are you here? Why are you here Mycroft? What the fuck do you want?" John leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes closed his glass resting in his lap, bottle white knuckled in his left hand.

"I just. I wanted. I know he would want me to look in on you. You've been...troubled." Mycroft The Unflappable, was stammering. John was done. Mycroft was wasting his time. He wanted to get drunk, and go fuck someone.

"Get out." The second the words where out of John's mouth he was reminded of the first Holmes he'd said those words to and it went straight to what was left of his tattered heart. "Just leave. Please." Now John needed a good cry before he got drunk and went out to fuck the nearest thing he could find to the real thing. That was John's nearly nightly challenge, trying to find the next best thing to sate his pain and anger. John had fucked every business man, shop owner, cabbie and barista in London, that boar a passing resemblance to Sherlock. He'd been told there was a bloke at Vault 139, that was just what he was looking for, John intended to fuck the lucky fellows brains out by nights end.

Sherlock looked at or rather through his reflection in the brightly lit mirror souranded by harsh exposed light bulbs on three sides. He knew how bad he looked, he'd lost nearly 2.14 stones and he didn't care. In fact he wondered why death was taking so very long. The antique syringe in his palm was a dull gray, where it had once been a polished silver, the weight of it an extension of himself, a self that had been stripped of all purpose, his brilliant mind had become a prison of anguish and doubt. Sherlock wasn't so much chasing death, as he was walking behind it occasionally pulling its coat tails. In the months since his return and rejection he had employed the homeless network to keep him from his brothers watchful eye, he had lived mostly on the streets or in whichever drugs den he happened to overdose in. He wanted nothing but to just simply fad away. Sherlock had passed out in an alleyway one night near a popular gay club. The owner had found him half naked wrapped in a sheet, blue and near death. But despite Sherlock's withered condition, his unusual beauty still shone through. So the owner had made a deal with Sherlock. Dance for him, if the turn out was good then Sherlock could sleep there in the tiny basement dressing room. The streets where rough, and Sherlock didn't like the cold so he agreed.

John edged his way to the front of the club looking for his next bloke to fuck or fight, whichever came first. It didn't matter. The music began with a start over the noise of the crowd. A lean figure seemed to slowly drag itself on stage draped in a white sheet and cast in shadow because of the glaring light behind him, sauntering gradually to the center of the stage, bony hips purposefully rising and falling in time with the hard rymthmic beat, the figure then abandoned the under current of the music and move in time with the lyrics, his curly head hung low, his body moving almost lazily only to seem to pulse with each word as he snapped his pelvis almost violently. And thou the man was gaunt almost to the point of skeletal, his movements where fluid and graceful, or sharp and deliberately jerky. The music was a catalyst, and the dancer the chemical. The figure undulated and seemed to flow the sheet billowed at his command and pale skin played hide and seek. John leered on the edge of his seat, his heart in his throat, his cock rock hard, transfixed. His body knew the dancer before his drink addled brain. Sherlock. His beautiful vulgar movements. Peeks of thigh, and curls, and cock, played at the folds of the sheet. The fring of long unkept curls hung in his face, and the always too sharp cheek bones, now looked alien. But god the man was gorgeous. John had no idea what to do. What he wanted was to leep on stage and drag Sherlock away from all the lecherous eyes and then come back and beat every man in the room to death. That wouldn't work. Just then three things happened, the music pulsed, Sherlock's sheet hit the floor, revealing just how thin he really was and the light flickered out. Just as suddenly they came back on, Sherlock gone and the crowd clearly disappointed. John among them. He had to find him. Because he wasn't leaving without him. John wondered the club until he found a long black hallway with several doors on either side and one at the far end. The one that John was drawn to.

John hesitated at the door for a second. There really wasn't any more damage they could do to each other was there. John opened the door and stepped in.

"Hello Sherlock."

"John."

"Did you see me out there?"

"I see you always. It happens that tonight you're actually real."

"I know that feeling. Every time I close my eyes, you're there. You've always been there. Here." John fisted his hand in his jacket over his heart. The room was tiny, and if John just stretched out his arm he could nearly touch Sherlock sitting in a black swivel chair facing the mirror. John watched as Sherlock's eyes drifted closed and his head lulled. Then he spoke. His beautiful voice an angry hatful whisper.

"I can still feel you in me. My mind, my heart, my body. My god my body still feels your weight. And parts of me I don't understand. Deeper. More. Places I can't grasp. I lived for you. I. Wanted to give up, to make the pain stop, to find some peace. Some relief. But I couldn't let them take me away from you for good. I had to come back. I had to try to make this right."

"And now? Can we make it right now?" John was terrified of Sherlock's answer.

"You don't want me. I'm broken." Sherlock turned and dropped his sheet, his hands balled into fist arms up turned to reveal a myriad of bruised track marks. John's stomach lurched. It was devastating to look at signs of the pain he'd caused, he was the reason that this brilliant beautiful man was naked in the basement of what was essentially a molly house.

"You've always been broken. So have I. Together is the only thing that fixes us. We where never ment to be apart."

"Then I guess you should have thought of that eight months ago. Now if you wouldn't mind. Get the fuck out." All grace and pose.

John gave a curt nod, pivoted on his heels and walked out. He made it about halfway down the narrow poorly lit black hall and just stopped, his own harsh words from months back echoing in his ears, and he laughed. No. Just no. He would not get the fuck out. Not now and not ever again. This had gone on long enough, and if one of them didn't let go of their stubborn fuckin pride, they would never find their way back to each other. Because they where both headed headlong for the grave.

Sherlock felt the drug crawl up his arm, and radiate into his chest but before his mind gave in to the abyss, he had one shining moment of ocean blue clarity. He didn't want this. This slow ugly spiral into heart wrenching pain. He wanted John. Bright and beautiful. Solid and strong. His Jawn. He let the syringe that he'd owned for more years then he could remember shatter to the floor, and called out to John with all that was left of him, as his vision failed to a pen hole.

Administering CPR, was on average was no easy task. One can only imagine that it was made only that much more difficult when trying to see through the blur of tears and fight down a rising panic.

But John didn't have to imagine, because that was his reality. When he'd walked back into small dressing room John had planned on kissing the man he loved and never again letting go. Now he was struggling to get him breathing again and call 999.

Sherlock woak to a world that seemed to buzz with a bright warm haze. Sherlock made a mental scan of his body, and found that he was hungry, and more tired then he'd ever been but aside from that and being sore from head to toe, he felt fine. No more then that he felt good. No withdrawal symptoms, just the weakness that follows. He stood on wobbly legs from the sofa he'd been situated on and went in search of John. Sherlock found him standing on a stone patio, looking out at the country hills.

"John, where are we? Some where in the contrary yes, but where I can't place the air. Is it Dorset, or maybe Cornwall. And the bees. There are bees somewhere yes? Why are there bees John?" Sherlock leaned heavily on the door frame, as he peppered John with questions, the short walk depleting what strength he had.

John turned quickly and walked to Sherlock's side.

"Oh no you don't. No gorgeous deductions* for you right now. You're weak as a kitten." John put his arm around Sherlock's, dangerously thin frame and guided him to a near by sofa.

"I'll take my doctors orders, but please tell me where we are." Sherlock's voice was weak and low from disuse.

"Well, to put it simply, it's your place." John was fidgety and a little evasive.

"Explain. " John knew an order when he herd one. He gave Sherlock a moc salute.

"When we...when I pushed you away all those months ago, from the second you where gone...I wanted you back." John paced slowly in front of Sherlock who sat legs Indian style on the sofa. "I hoped that we would find each other again one day. And if we did, I wanted a fresh start. Away from London. Away from our past, not forever. Just some place quite. If you don't like it...or you'd prefer to stay here alone, I'll understand. "

"It's beautiful." Sherlock said simply as he looked up at the beamed ceiling.

"Sherlock, I love you. More then anything in this world. And I'm so so sorry for the things I've done to you. And if you let me I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. And trying my best to make you happy. I don't deserve your forgiveness..."

"Stop." Sherlock barely held up his hand. John felt his heart constrict, and he almost buckled at the pain. "In the two years nine months and four days we've been apart, I've had time to think. You didn't hurt me, you destroyed me. You successfully found my heart, cultivated it and then proceeded to rip it out." John had walked over to a near by chair to brace himself as Sherlock spoke, each word a blow that made him weaker and weaker. "That being said, it was no less then I did to you. Allowing you to believe that I was dead was...cruel. I'm sorry. I wish I'd done things differently. I'd like for you to stay here wherever here is, with me, because like you, I believe we where never ment to be apart." Sherlock had moved off the sofa to stand directly front of John.

"Skyreholme. Near Appltreewick, Skipton, North Yorkshire." John was fighting back tears, his lips pressed in a thin sever line. "That's where we are."

Sherlock looped his long arms over Johns shoulders, and rested his dark curls against Johns blond head and spoke into his neck."Hum. That's where I thought we where." Sherlock glanced at John and smiled. And John laughed. For the first time in two years nine months and four days.


End file.
